Another morning I saw the Grand Canyon as one hears
an exquisite poem, a soft strain of music on violin, 'cello or oboe, or
sung by the human voice.
It was no longer terrifying and awe-inspiring; it
affected one as beautiful flowers do, as the blessing of an old man or
woman, as the half unconscious caress of a sleepy child whom you love. It
was poetry personified; the spirit of beauty revealed; the inner glory of
an artistic mystery unveiled.
There had been rain nearly all night, preceded by considerable wind. The
clouds had massed together across the Canyon on the Kaibab. Winds had
seemed to blow from every direction, but mainly from the southeast, and
there were a few "sunshiny showers" in the late afternoon. The rain began
after the sun had gone down, and it descended easily but steadily nearly
all night. At six o'clock in the morning, not a glimpse of the Canyon could
be had. It was completely buried, wrapped, enveloped in clouds. About nine
o'clock these began to move. The rain ceased, tiny patches of blue shone
through the clouds overhead, though east, west, north, south they were
still black and lowering. It was cold almost to chilliness after the warmth
of the preceding days, so there was no haste, no hurry, in the dispersion
of the cloud blankets that covered the rocky walls and plateaus below.
Slowly they began to rise, then to stretch out and become attenuated.
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